


Sounds like the Plot of a Bad Porno

by gubby



Series: The Thing but sexier [2]
Category: The Thing (1982)
Genre: Bets, Blowjobs, Come Eating, Cuddling, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Eating out, F/M, Fantasizing, Fluff, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Heavy Petting, Mating Press, Multi, NSFW, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Reader-Insert, Self-Indulgent, Sound fixation, Spit As Lube, Stress Relief, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, also bi windows hehe, hand holding, i guess, interrupting, just a bunch of guys alone on a base in antartica haha, like barely - Freeform, reader has short hair, tee hee, the slightest hint of bi MacCready, thinkin' about jerkin' off, to the extreme, unless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 14,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27441355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gubby/pseuds/gubby
Summary: An isolated US Outpost in Antarctica. No internet, no tv signals, just 12 guys and a few sled dogs.And you.
Relationships: Clark (The Thing)/Reader, Everyone & Reader, Fuchs/Reader, M.T. Garry/Reader, Palmer (The Thing)/Reader, R. J. MacReady/Reader, Windows/Reader
Series: The Thing but sexier [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004778
Comments: 39
Kudos: 76





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is a super self indulgent fic I am writing because I am insane. Short chapters, hoping to get around to quite a few characters, but we'll see. If you have any idea you've been dying to see written down... Well, I can be persuaded. Easily. Chapters with specific pairings will be labelled. 
> 
> This first chapter is set before you arrive at the outpost.

“So, who you guys think’ll get to her first?”

The rec room fell silent in an instant at Palmer’s posed question. You were set to arrive tomorrow, an assistant physician to Doc Copper. The only girl in an Antarctic base with 12 guys. 

Windows scoffed. 

“C’mon man, we ain’t even seen her yet. She could be a total dog!”

“Could be right up Clark’s alley, then,” Bennings murmured. Clark’s lip curved, but not in a way that indicated he found the statement amusing. 

“That don’t matter and you know it. Only girl on the whole continent for the next six months at least, you think it’ll matter if she isn’t a swimsuit model?” Palmer quipped.

“I’m just sayin’, I got enough magazines to last me till spring. I’m not about to get desperate when I got bunny girls to keep  _ me _ company.” Nauls stopped his skates at the door, leaning against the frame. 

“Y’all ever talk about something that ain’t nasty?”


	2. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You arrive at the Outpost

When the chopper that carried you arrived, MacCready was the first to know, as usual. Perks of having a shack. You were bundled head to toe, of course, but he could see how pretty your eyes were. Big and dark— sort of puppy-cute. Wordlessly, he gave a two finger salute in greeting, grabbing a few of your things to carry inside as a few of the others stumbled out of the door with hastily tugged-on coats. 

“Hello!” You shouted, muffled heavily by a scarf, but you smiled with your eyes. They all waved and called back in their own ways, clearing to let you and MacCready through the halls, a few trying to make it seem as if they weren’t staring. Garry had followed the both of you to your little room, exchanging small talk and pleasantries, welcoming you to the outpost. 

“I’d stay a while, but I’ve got to be getting back to my office. Mac, will you show her around? Once she’s had a few minutes to settle, that is.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Great— be seeing you, miss,” and with that he excused himself. 

When MacCready set your bags down, he flexed his biceps just so. Not that you could tell through his coat. But he’d have other chances. Hell, he was getting ahead of himself. Must’ve let all that shit Palmer was saying last night get to him. He still didn’t really know what you looked like. 

He waited in the doorway with somewhat bated breath while you shed some layers, taking his coat off himself and then pretending to be interested in rolling up his sleeves. 

You uncoiled your scarf and shucked off your thick gloves before pulling off your hat and coat. Your hair was a lot shorter than he’d expected, shorter than his own, for sure. You stretched your arms above your head, making a few sounds of relief as your joints cracked. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold winds.

It was true. You weren’t a swimsuit model. But you had the sort of cute face and sweet smile that could make a guy want to risk it all. You turned to him, told him your name, which he rolled around in his head for a moment, then stuck out your hand. 

“R.J. MacCready, nice to meet you.” Your hands were warm and soft. He was willing to bet the rest of you was the same way. 

“Thanks for all your help with my stuff, Mac. Would you show me around, please?”

“It’d be my pleasure.”


	3. The Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac gives you the tour

Giving you a tour hadn’t taken long. Small base, not so many faces. People introduced themselves to you as you came to see the different rooms, some rather curt and busy, others clearly hoping for you to stay. 

Despite working in a radio room wall-to-wall with sensitive electronics and at a desk covered in specifically connected wires, Windows made it a point to say you could drop in anytime. That he’d be grateful for the company. From all the magazines, you had a feeling he didn’t take his job too seriously. 

Garry gave you a wave from the window of his office as you stopped by the door. 

Palmer and Childs were in the basement, checking over and tuning up the generator. Childs was polite enough, but seemed somewhat closed off, and you felt like it had something to do with Mac being there. Palmer had a staring problem, and was clearly nervous and trying to hide it while he introduced himself. 

Blair and Fuchs were absorbed in something, flipping through thick books and pages of notes when they weren’t glued to the computer screen.

Bennings and Norris were similarly pouring over data and equipment, but were a little more humoring of an interruption. 

Nauls was by far the friendliest. He even let you lick the spoon from the brownie batter he was making. 

Clark was in the kennel and stoic, but seemed to soften as you shook paws with one of the malamutes and gave her a tummy rub. 

You were dropped by the infirmary so Copper could get you acquainted with the ins and outs of it. 

“Hey, any of these knuckleheads give you any trouble, you can come tell me, alright?” He pointed out one of the windows of the infirmary. “Shack’s out there. Consider it an open invitation.” He gave a wave before making his way to the door, after which he was planning on heading up to his shack and having a drink, then jerking off at the memory of how warm and small your hand felt in his, and how you looked at him. Or he’d play chess on the computer. He wasn’t sure yet. 

“Oh, wait, hold on a second!” You walked quickly to his spot near the door. One of your hands dug around in your pocket, the other motioning for one of his. He granted it to you, and you pressed something that crinkled a little into his palm before closing his fingers around it gently. 

“Thanks for all your help today, MacCready.” He liked the fondness in the way you said his name. The way each syllable rolled off of your tongue. You trotted off to Copper’s office, leaving him staring after you somewhat dumbly. You waved to him before you went through the door. He waved back. 

Upon opening his closed fist he found a single wrapped caramel in his palm. He tucked it in his breast pocket. He made up his mind. 

He was definitely going to jerk off thinking of those hands of yours. 


	4. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You think being self indulgent is funny? Well I'm about to be hilarious.

You were completely dead asleep. Jet lagged as all hell. No one could blame you, you’d had a busy day, and it wasn’t like you had a job interview tomorrow morning or anything. Your door was left just slightly ajar. If someone stood by it and listened, they could just barely hear your quiet, rhythmic breathing, the occasional hum and shifting of blankets. 

Everyone else was in the rec room playing poker, pinball, whatever. It was noticeably quieter than usual, as they showed you a little more courtesy than they ever would each other. Maybe over time they’d forget or just regard you as one of them, but for the first night, it felt like the whole world had shifted. 

“MacCready, how’d it go with the little lady today? Didn’t get a chance to talk to her again before she fell asleep,” Garry called from the poker table over to Mac’s perch at the bar. Bennings’ eyes drifted towards Garry’s hand while he was turned away, but withered under Copper’s admonishing stare before he could see anything.

“Fine. She’s a sweet girl.” He struggled to say much more with the way your caramel clung to his back teeth. But he liked how it mingled with the taste of whiskey on his tongue. Hell, he was thinking of makin’ nice with you just to get more of the suckers. Strange thing was, he’d never had a sweet tooth until now.

“Y’got plans already, MacCready?” Childs ribbed, “Prince charming with longer hair than the princess. Now that, I’d like to see.” A few scattered huffs of amusement came from different corners of the room.

“Say what you want, Childs. The way I see it, I got a head start on the rest of you horndogs.” The air in the room got perceptibly thicker. Windows looked up from tuning the strings on his guitar.

“Dunno, Mac. You might have us all beat for time, but I think she seemed  _ pretty _ fond of me.” 

“Thought you were sure she was gonna be a  _ dog--” _ Clark interjected.

“No, I said she  _ could be _ , and now I know she’s not, which changes everything.” Palmer scoffed at the statement.

“You just worry about your  _ bunnygirls _ , Windows.”

“What, you think you’ve got a better chance, Palmer? You’re outta your mind, as usual--”

“Better than you? Sure--”

“Wanna bet?” The room falls silent. Palmer stood up from the couch, dug into his pockets, and slapped a few bills on the ping pong table before sitting back down, sliding his headphones back over his ears. Windows met him with a few more. Time slowed to a crawl as other people got up to add their stake to the pot. Childs threw in some. Mac tossed in a few wrinkled notes, one written on in sharpie as a voucher for a couple bottles of whiskey. Bennings joined, looking around, waiting for someone to say  _ aren’t you a little old?. _ No one did, but they were all thinking it.

Nauls wore a disapproving look while attempting to sort through some tapes. Fuchs was sending some very longing glances towards the exit. Norris and Copper shot each other the same knowing look (the it’s-good-to-be-married look). Blair just wished they could fuckin’ finish this game so he could go to bed.

Clark stood unexpectedly, and was watched with bated breath, only to leave the room, presumably to check over the kennels one last time before going to sleep. The night went on without any more mention of the money on the table. People filtered out of the room, until it was just Nauls, Mac, Windows, and Palmer. The latter three were not-so-subtly glancing at Nauls, who eventually stood up and sighed. He took the case from one of his cassettes, converting the pile into a neat stack, folding it, and shoving it in. Ridiculous.

The youngest guy there, and  _ he _ had to be the responsible bookie?  _ For this? _


	5. The Infirmary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get into routine working in the infirmary. You're surrounded by idiots, despite the fact that most of them have degrees.

After a few weeks, you feel pretty well adjusted. It took a while— despite the fact that the outpost used US time zones, the cycle of day and night wasn’t exactly obedient to them. Waking up to see complete darkness outside was jarring. 

You were fortunate in that your job wasn’t particularly demanding. Copper was easygoing and gave clear instructions. Injuries weren’t very common, and were almost never severe enough to keep someone for over 20 minutes. Norris was something of a regular, he had some chronic pain that flared badly sometimes. 

Palmer sustained a fair amount of injuries, usually just from absent mindedness, little cuts and burns. You would have thought he’d take any excuse to get off work, but he really only came by to stock up on bandages or because Childs forced him to. Occasionally you’d fuss over him even while you weren’t on duty. He acted reluctant when you’d drag him over to the sink to wash out his cuts and apply fresh bandages, but anyone could tell he liked it. Mac was telling the truth about your hands. 

Windows came by with a lot of headaches, though you could tell it was an excuse. Not a terrible one, considering his area of expertise, but he was a terrible faker. But he seemed so happy to talk to you that it was hard to turn him away outright. You’d humor him for a few minutes if you weren’t busy before kicking him out. You’d stopped wasting ibuprofen on him too. 

MacCready was terminally hung over, but never really mentioned it. He just came by to talk about whatever. Whenever he wasn’t needed to transport any of the researchers, he had quite a bit of down time. He did odd jobs for Garry too, but you still saw a lot of him when he didn’t have to fly. In exchange for taking up your time, you usually did force him to drink some fucking water while he was in the infirmary. The man was about a decade behind on his fluid intake. 

Clark came in with the occasional bite. Nothing terrible, just one of the dogs playing a little too hard. He usually just tried to sneak by you and take care of the disinfecting himself, but after a few instances where you asked him to let you do your job, he’d just roll up his sleeve and sit still while you took care of it. 

Bennings was the kind of guy who got really paranoid over nothing. Made mountains out of molehills. He’d pull muscles and think he’d dislocated something, have a cut for a little too long and worry it was infected, notice a birthmark in the mirror then suspect it was skin cancer. Copper usually set him straight, seeing as you were green and trying a little too hard at times, but you were starting to learn when to turn people away. Hell, he looked like a proud father the first time you dismissed Bennings without even letting him get on the exam table. 

Outside of work, you got along with everyone fine. Still didn’t spend as much time in the rec room, even though they tried to make you feel included, and that it was as much your space as theirs. At the end of the day, it was just a little scary to be in the presence of up to 12 men at once, and you were never really one for table games or drinking anyways. You’d play the fuck out of pinball sometimes though, and Palmer would help you tilt the machine when people weren’t looking. 

It was kind of difficult connecting with many people, given that you were all kind of co-workers, kind of housemates, and yet you all had completely different jobs and spanned a pretty big age range. But you were getting the hang of things. You and Fuchs would talk about microbiology and good books, usually during nights when you couldn’t sleep. Palmer let you borrow his tapes, both video and cassette, a privilege few people at the outpost had. Clark would let you into the kennel to play with the dogs, he told you all of their names, taught you about what they each liked and disliked. 

But the person you clicked with most was Nauls. Now  _ there _ was a dude who knew how to have fun. He’d help you pin your hair so you could help around the kitchen, or sometimes just for the hell of it. He let you put on whatever music you wanted while you hung around with him. On your free days he’d lend you his spare pair of skates and try to teach you by leading you up and down the halls when they were empty. The periodic  _ thump  _ followed by your laughter could be heard through the halls and their open doors, becoming a telltale sign of your days off. 

Every time Fuchs heard you fall from the lab, he’d freeze for just a second, contemplating getting up to check if you were ok. Once he heard you laugh, he’d smile in relief, and settle back into his chair as his shoulders dropped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorrryyyyyyyyyy for there being more exposition. I promise more shit will happen in the next chapter. Any guesses as to who's gonna be the first man in US Outpost 31 so get some fuckin' puss? 
> 
> I know. But I'm not telling.


	6. The Trouble with Names [Clark]

Clark didn’t like a lot of people. He didn’t  _ dislike _ a lot of people either. He just didn’t find himself drawn to spending time with others as much as most people. That was ok with him. It was part of what made him a good fit for his job, which involved being thousands of miles from civilization for months at a time. 

The sled dogs weren’t needed these days as often as they once were, but they were useful for short trips and trips in bad weather. He took them out pretty frequently, but they still spent longer cooped up in the kennel then he’d like sometimes. So he wasn’t a hardass about it when people wanted to play around with the dogs every so often. 

You came by at least once a week. Not just when you were wasted, or depressed, or both. And you were trying very hard to learn all of their names, and identify them. You currently had a malamute rolling around on her back while you rubbed her tummy. You looked up from the dog to Clark, who’d taken a knee next to you. 

“Is this… Lakota?” 

“Sharona,” he gently corrected. “Close. Lakota’s the one sleeping over there. She’s got a little more white around the eyes.”

“ _ Nooooo _ , I was close! I’d be such a bad dog mom,” you moaned, but it didn’t matter to Sharona, who was lost in belly-rub euphoria. “Aren’t you lucky you have Clark to look after you, Sharona? Isn’t he a sweetheart?  _ Yes he is _ !” Clark rolled his eyes and smiled as your sentences devolved into puppy-baby-talk.

Then, Sharona rolled onto her feet, standing up suddenly and knocking you off balance from your squat. 

And right into Clark. 

He caught you, of course, in time to save your ass from even more bruising. His hands were at the cinch of your waist, the tips of his fingers cool against the warm flesh of your hips where your sweater had ridden up. Internally, he scolded himself, trying to will himself into helping you steady and letting go, as he’d initially planned. In a moment of lapsed impulse control, he gently kneaded his fingertips into the soft skin, letting out a sigh. It’d been so long since he’d been this close to anyone, let alone a girl. 

A cute girl. One that tried to learn all the names of his dogs. Praised him, and never pressured him with invasive questions. One that didn’t give him a hearty slap when his hands stayed in place, touching her skin with reverent fascination. 

You flushed at the prolonged contact with Clark’s big, calloused hands. Gently, he set you down, withdrawing his hands slowly. You turned to face him, and he mentally prepared to bite the bullet and apologize even though—

“Did you, uhm, like that?” You blurted out, clearly nervous, but not avoiding his eyes. After taking half a second longer than normal, he nodded just slightly. God, he felt fried. 

“Did you want to do more? Or…. am I reading this wrong? Please, tell me.” You desperately tried to avoid making a complete fool of yourself, though you had the feeling it was a moot point. 

Clark’s tongue moved in his mouth, tasting all of the different words he could say. Uncharacteristic, to say the least. He’d never had a sense of conversational delicacy, never had his heart beat so loud with fear he’d mess up what he was going to say. 

“Come to my room?” He fought the urge to tack on ‘if you want’, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he wanted to seem more certain, confident, like this really mattered to him. And it did. 

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to blueballs you all. Continuation coming soon.


	7. Limit [Clark]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Clark continue.

Clark’s hand had a firm grip on your own as he led you down the hall, even though you probably already knew which room was his. He didn’t want to have you follow him without contact— didn’t want to make it seem like he was trying to hide what was going on. He didn’t want to treat you like just anyone. The walk from the kennel to the dorms was a short one anyhow. The only person he saw on the way was someone coming in from outside, and they’d probably been too caked in snow and concerned with shedding their outerwear to get a good look at the two of you. 

You didn’t know what you expected Clark’s room to be like. It was relatively neat, a few flannels over the seat of the chair at the desk, a couple of open logbooks, an array of post-it notes on the wall. His bed was made, and you almost felt bad sitting on it. 

But as soon as you were on it, you didn’t have the time or wherewithal to feel guilty about messing it up. He thumbed at your chin and looked at you with soulful eyes before you met in a few passionate kisses, each increasing in fervor from the last. When you parted, he gently turned you and pulled you into his lap, your back against his chest. 

He groaned as you brushed against his clothed cock, squirming a little in an attempt to get settled. He wasn’t feeling so confident he’d last, either. Clark pinned you with his hands around your waist, like before, his left sliding up the smooth skin of your stomach before finding a breast. No bra. He supposed there wasn’t much of a need with the way you were always layered in cardigans and big sweaters, but it was still a surprise. The kind of surprise that made his cheeks burn, all while you mewled at the sensation of his calloused hand groping at you, just shy of being too harsh. 

His right hand moved down, and he struggled to undo the button of your pants one handed. Just as he was about to move his hand from your breast, you grabbed his wrist with authority, keeping it there while you squeezed his other hand. Then, you did it yourself, before reaching behind your back to undo his. The weight of his cock was hot against your palm as it fell into your hand. You leaned back, turning your face towards his neck, breathing in the scent of cedar and sweat from his collar. 

The hand perched on your thigh stroked you, relaxed and slow, before sliding into your pants and thermals, fingers coming to rest against the wet spot of your covered pussy. God, you were so damn warm. He stroked along the fabric that clung to your slit, breathing heavier as he felt your arousal gather on the pads of his fingers. He removed his hand and went back in, this time, going past the elastic of your underwear as well. As he cupped your cunt, just barely teasing your folds with his curled fingers, it felt like you fit perfectly in his hand. So cute. 

He started easing a finger into you, prodding gently, and painfully slowly. So warm, so wet, so soft. His cock throbbed at the mere idea of you beneath him, taking his harsh thrusts. A calloused thumb to the clit has you moaning, trying to keep quiet with a bitten lip. Clark doesn’t mind quiet. But he’ll still work you up until you can’t bear to be silent. 

You keep a light grip on his dick, slightly awkwardly due to the position, but the curves of your ass do more than enough to compensate as you grind into him. With how long it’s been , and how touch starved he is, Clark has no doubts he’ll get off just like this, if he wants to or not. A second finger joins the first, and they massage your hot velvet, curling against that special spot that makes sparks shoot up your spine. His thumb quickens against your clit, and he grits his teeth and downright growls when you grind yourself harder into him, rubbing your thumb against the pre gathering at the head. 

There’s a knock on the door. You freeze, almost forgetting to breath, but Clark’s fingers don’t stop. From the door, you can hear Bennings. 

“Clark, you in there? The dogs are making a real racket in the kennel, can you go check it out?” His tone is exasperated, but not demanding, and you almost feel bad for him. Maybe you would have, had Clark not added a third finger, which had you biting your lip to keep from whining.

“Be out in a minute,” Clark called. You exhaled deeply as you heard the footsteps start and grow quieter. You tensed at the idea of being on a time crunch, and the possibility of being left unsatisfied. Clark spoke to you in a soothing tone. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

He used his grip to force your further against him as you continued to feel his cock rut against your ass. He grit his teeth and groaned, pausing for a second to spill his load into your palm, before fingering your cunt with renewed fervor. It wasn’t long before your entire body was shaking in climax, and the stroke of your inner muscles against his fingers sent a jolt to Clark’s softening cock. His finger slowed, gently helping you ride out your orgasm, before withdrawing entirely. He was gonna be thinking of the way you mewled when his fingers left you for the rest of the fucking winter. 

He leaned and stretched to reach the tissue box on his nightstand, holding it out to you before taking one himself. You cleaned a good bit of his load off of your hand, but you made sure he saw you getting a taste. So romance  _ wasn’t _ dead after all. He tucked himself into his pants and righted his ruffled clothing, standing, putting his hat back on. His eyes roamed. He wasn’t sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all. You, on the other hand, were tormented by the silence while you put yourself back together. 

“I should get to the kennel. You can, uh, stay here, if you want. Or not. Up to you.” Your eyes met, and what he was saying suddenly felt alright. 

“I should get back to the infirmary,” you sighed, standing up briefly before clutching at Clark to right yourself, much like how this whole situation began. Your legs shook for a moment, and Clark most certainly took note. “But thank you. This was wonderful.”

You stood on your toes, leaning and kissing him on the corner of his mouth. He told himself you intended for it to be a cheek kiss. But who could say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Hope it makes sense lol. Also, I know that based on the map of the base that in the dorms people have roommates, but for the purposes of this fic I'm just gonna let them all have their own rooms. For sex reasons. Otherwise Mac would have way too big an advantage lmao


	8. Envy [MacCready]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac sees you and Clark together

MacCready had expected to see a lot of things today. There was a big storm that was just starting. He expected to see Garry storming through the place with authority, Bennings shuffling through piles of documents and obsessing over different meters, Palmer and Childs begrudgingly checking over the generator and heating system  _ again _ , Windows getting reamed for not trying hard enough to get out a final transmission before the storm cut them off. 

What he had not expected to see was you, hand in hand with Clark, heading towards the dorms. He’d come in to tell Garry that the chopper had been taken care of, stock up on some food for the shack, and maybe (more like  _ definitely _ ) see you. Remind you of his invitation, hoping maybe he’d get you over and convince you to stay the night when the storm got worse. 

He could’ve sworn that for just a fraction of a second, he locked eyes with Clark as he took off his goggles. And maybe it was just his imagination, or the distance, or the eye fatigue from the snow. But it looked like the sonuvabitch smiled at him. Not quite a smirk, but not without pride, either. You, of course, hadn’t seen MacCready, even though his eyes followed you. 

Clark never invited anyone to his room. Didn’t have a reason to, probably didn’t like any of them enough to want to. But there you were. 

Mac wasn’t mad. Not really. It all made sense. You were sweet, liked spending time around the dogs, and Clark was the surprisingly sensitive guy who took care of the dogs. Of course you’d grow close. He’d readily admit Clark was a good looking guy, too. Strong, solid body, nice, dark eyes. But just because he wasn’t mad didn’t mean he wasn’t jealous as shit. 

MacCready could only imagine the precious little moments Clark was getting to have with you. The feel of your breasts beneath his hands, your quiet moans, the feel of your hands on his cock. 

So he decided to get on with his day, constantly resisting the urge to stop at Clark’s room. Whether he wanted to put his ear to the door and listen in, or knock with some made-up problem and purposely interrupt, he wasn’t sure. Instead, he reported to Garry, stopped by the kitchen to talk to Nauls and grab a couple boxes and cans, and went right on back to his shack. 

When he closed the door and shed his outerwear, he promptly shoveled some ice into a glass and poured whiskey over it, plopped down in his chair, and undid his belt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus chapter! very short! But it will be continued...


	9. Alone Time [MacCready]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ooohoohooo nsfw

MacCready sighs as the flushed head of his cock greets the air of his shack, already leaking a bead of pre. His right hand is on it, while his left raises his glass to his lips. He stops drinking to lick his palm sloppily before getting down to business. 

He starts off slow, mainly just focusing on the pressure, closing his eyes and thinking of you. He’s picturing you holding his hand and trailing behind him, instead of Clark. Hell, he’d be happy with you trailing behind him  _ and _ Clark. You’ve got two hands. But for this fantasy, he decides to be a little selfish. 

Would you be nervous, he wonders? He hadn’t gotten close enough or drunk enough with you to venture into teasing about your sexual experiences, asking for your stories. That was on his to do list. He thinks that while you wouldn’t be a nervous wreck, he’d still have to give you a little guidance. The image of the both of you curled into each other, foreheads together as he wraps your hand around his dick and shows you how he likes it, has his cock twitching in his hand something  _ fierce _ . He starts up a regular pace with his stroking, pressing his thumb down just a little every so often while he imagines the sensation of your soft touch. His breathing is already getting heavy, and he hasn’t even thought about your bare body yet. 

He’d like to move his hands up your whole body before kneading at your breasts, hearing you mewl and pinning you down if you tried to squirm. He saw the way you looked at him whenever he put forth a small display of strength. You’d like it. It’s been so long, he could probably suck and play with your breasts and be able to cum just from that. 

His pace quickens a little as he thinks of being in this very chair with you, your cute ass in his hands while he sits you on his cock. He’d be gentle at first, but as soon as you adjusted, he’d hold your hips steady and fuck up into you as hard as he could. Make you scream so loud they’d be able to hear his name in the main building. Then again, maybe he’d quiet you by shoving his tongue in your mouth. Maybe he wants all those cute noises for himself. 

MacCready can feel his balls tighten as he fists his cock with the same vigor as he imagines fucking you. He thinks of the face you make when you cum as he reaches climax, ropes of white splashing across his clothed stomach. The ice in his glass klinks as it melts down. He thinks of your weight slumped against him, fucked out, ready for him to tuck into bed, much too tired to even think of going back to your room for the night. He returns to his drink, slightly watered down from before. 

He’d prefer your tongue in his throat, but for now, whiskey would do. 


	10. Kiss It Better [Palmer]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Palmer burns his hand.

Palmer leaned against the counter while you held his hand under some cool water. The burn on his palm kinda stung, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t handled before, and he was  _ more _ than soothed by just your fussing over him. Your hands were warm and soft, nothing like his own calloused and bony ones. 

He’s brought out of the reverie of your touch when you turn the water off, letting go of his hand to unscrew the cap on some antibiotic cream. You dab some on the tips of your fingers, wordlessly grabbing at his hand once again, applying a thin film of it over the angry red skin. You put a little pressure into it to try to teach him a lesson about being more careful or something. Palmer just smiles. There’s no hurt you can inflict on him now that will drive him out of the good mood your sweetness never fails to put him in. 

He acted like a real asshole sometimes. He’d admit that most of the stuff he said about you with the guys was to get a rise out of Windows, and to just generally cause an upstart. He liked to create problems on purpose sometimes, and often felt starved for anything new. It was something to talk about. 

The two of you had actually become fast friends. He taught you how to fuck with the pinball machine, you talked about music and leant each other tapes (he was  _ finally _ starting to understand the appeal of The Carpenters), and you’d hang around with him and Childs while they got high and watched old tapes, even though you didn’t smoke (“Someone has to be sober to take care of your dumb asses,” you’d said).

Palmer wasn’t in denial. He had an honest to god  _ crush _ on you, regardless of the stupid bet. And he wasn’t about to put what the two of you had on the line for a couple bucks and some whiskey. Though, maybe if he told you about the bet, you could help him cheat… Nah, you’d never go for a thing like that. 

“ _ Owww _ — don’tcha think that’s kinda tight?” He winced as you pulled the bandages taut around his palm until it felt like his fingers were about to lose circulation. But he liked your little methods of payback. He liked that you actually cared. 

“Think of it as a reminder. Pay more attention next time, yeah? Maybe turn down the music so you can hear Childs warning you,” you admonished, but there was no ire behind your words. You hummed in thought, taking a rather pregnant pause. 

“I like seeing you, I just don’t like seeing you _like_ _this_.” Palmer’s face burns a little at those words. He awkwardly scratches the back of his head with his pristine hand. 

“Sorry. I, uh, I’ll be more careful, I guess.” You caress his injured hand, curling his fingers. He hopes you don’t mind the sweat. 

“Good. Now get out,” you coo, a bright smile on your face. The contrast of your words and your tone is whiplash inducing. Palmer pushes himself off of the counter, towering over you much more, now that he’s upright. 

“Tryna get rid of me already? Y’didn’t even kiss it better,” he joked. Well, the kissing part was a joke, but it was true that he didn’t really want to leave. It was strange. He used to kinda hate the infirmary. It was where Copper would lecture him about all sortsa stupid shit, habits the both of them knew Palmer would never change. But lately, it seemed every time he was in there, he never wanted to go. 

You brought his hand up to your face, where you held it against your cheek for just a moment. Then, you kissed his bandaged palm gently, emphasizing the sound of your lips parting. You bring his hand back up against his own cheek before letting go. 

“Take care, Palm.” You walked off, going to put away the gauze and medicine. He lingered in the door frame for a moment before leaving. Once he was in the hall, he brought his hand up to his face again. His bandages smelled like your lip balm. 


	11. Cowboys {Windows}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you and windows gossip

In the dead of winter, with the storms raging constantly, Windows had fuck all to do. Garry insisted he still sit in the radio control room for a certain amount of hours every work day, but he’d just end up rereading the same stack of magazines over and over again. He’d do his due diligence of trying different frequencies, going through the full range of broadcast settings, turning every dial, but no signal is no signal. 

That’s why he made a point of telling you to come around. He got bored out of his skull half the time. And he was glad he did, because for as much as he bragged about his extensive collection, talking to you was way more interesting than reading magazines. 

You had quite a bit of free time, too. Perks of working under Copper instead of just Garry, he supposed. And given that no one seemed to mind you wandering the outpost like a domestic cat, he assumed you were a good worker. The way you’d sort through the papers whenever you sat down at his desk (he didn’t care, there obviously wasn’t a filing system in place) was almost scarily efficient. 

The first few times, you’d been a little stiff. He could tell you were afraid of knocking wires loose and things like that, and he desperately tried to get you to loosen up. Now, sometimes the both of you would lean forward and rest your heads on your arms on the table, and talk that way. You were fun like that. 

But the best part was that you shared two very important interests with Windows. You loved passing judgment on celebrities and models. And you loved shit-talking and gossiping about everyone else. Windows pointed to the page of the tabloid you were looking at together, something about an illicit affair that probably wasn’t true, but was trashy enough to be amusing. “What do you think of John Wayne?” He asked. 

“Well, he’s had some good movies, but I don’t really get the heartthrob and leading man angle. He’s not like, sexy or anything. He kinda reminds me of someone’s dad, and not in a hot way,” you responded, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Windows lit up a little and turned to you. 

“Right? Man, I thought I was the only one. He’s just not hot. He’s no Clint Eastwood.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started on Clint Eastwood,” you groaned. Windows raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh? Spill it, I wanna know all your groundbreaking western actor opinions,” he grinned. 

“He’s like the total opposite of John Wayne. All looks, next to no talent. He just squints and looks pretty. The only movie where he actually added to the production was Paint Your Wagon,” you ranted, talking animatedly with a hand tangled in your hair. 

“Just like MacCready, then?”

You playfully smack him on the shoulder, and you’re clearly holding back a snort of laughter. 

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Windows,” you cooed. 

“I’m just saying. People who can rely on their looks don’t have to develop an actual personality.”

“So you think Mac can rely on his looks?”

“Maybe not when he’s blackout drunk, but otherwise, he can give most of us a run for our money. Wish he’d break his nose more often, give the rest of us a chance.”

“Mac broke his nose? When?”

“Oh yeah. He’s probably done it a couple times at this point, just gets lucky when it sets again. Usually it’s cause he tries to get up the stairs of his shack. In the snow. At night. While hammered.”

Your laugh is clear, like a bell, and so real it raises your cheeks and squints your eyes. Windows fights the urge to lean over and kiss you then and there. 


	12. Cookies [Nauls] [but also a lot of others]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Nauls make cookies.
> 
> Warning: this has a lot of reverse harem self indulgent shit in it lmao

You loved spending time with everyone, really you did. However, For all but a few people, you felt this sort of invisible tension. Nauls was one of those few people— the times you shared were fun, relaxing, and didn’t keep you up at night with lingering thoughts. 

He let other people use the kitchen equipment sparingly. And it wasn’t surprising, you saw how some of the other guys lived, and Nauls told you there had been a few incidents where everything was left in absolute disarray. Turns out getting smashed makes some people desperately try to make baked goods they have no business making. 

Which was related to why you were in the kitchen with him today, hair pushed back, wearing a spare apron. Nauls much preferred cooking to baking, but every so often he’d throw something together as a treat. It couldn’t be anything too complicated, because he had to make enough for 13 people. More like 20, with how some of these bastards ate. 

So today, he enlisted your help in baking cookies, and even let you pick what kind to make. You picked snickerdoodles. They were easy, and Palmer had complained about craving them a few times while stoned, making you kinda want them too. So you jammed some Boney M into the tape player and rolled up your sleeves to get to baking. And spilling secrets. 

“Damn, really? You and Clark? Never woulda suspected that. Does anyone else know?”

“Nope. Just the three of us. You won’t tell, will you?” Nauls rolls his eyes as you fake a pleading look, and clicks his tongue at you. 

“Hell _nah_ , these dudes already have enough bad attitude as it is. Don’t need to start ‘em on _seasonal_ _depression_ too,” he groans. 

“Really? You think that many of them would take it that badly?” You struggle to incorporate some not-softened-enough butter into your bowl of dough. 

“Man, you have no idea. These guys will kill each other when someone finishes the coffee and doesn’t start another pot. Don’t know how you can stand being around some of them as much as you are.” Nauls takes your bowl and chops and spreads the butter with his spatula before handing it back. It’s a lot easier to mix now. 

“Well, it’s different for me. Cause I’m a  _ guuurl _ ,” you put on a stupid voice and Nauls snickers. “They’re probably more sensitive with me. And who knows, maybe in a few months, they’ll hate me just as much as they hate each other,” you smile. Nauls sends you a look that says ‘ _ we both know that’s never gonna happen, but sure’ _ .

Your tongue sticks out of the side of your mouth as you try to get the hang of using a melon baller to distribute the cookie dough. 

“Y’know, why don’t you just make a shit load of dough at once and stick it in the freezer? I bet it’d make baking less of a pain for you.” You shake the baller, trying to get some extra sticky dough to let go. 

“I used to do somethin’ like that. Then Palmer got salmonella, cause he was eatin’ it all the time. Heard him getting reamed by Garry  _ and _ Copper from across the building. Now I only make as much as I’m gonna use.”

You could imagine Palmer, fucking sick as a dog, suffering in bed, getting his ear chewed off by Copper. You bet he had that stupid grin on his face, though. You could tell he kinda liked getting in trouble sometimes. 

While you waited for the cookies to bake, you played cards in the rec room. 

“Does anyone ever play the board games? They look fucking ancient,” you ponder. Nauls flips over a nine of spades, and his face sours as he takes the pile. Ah, the epic highs and lows of pig’s tail. 

“Tell me, would you ever wanna play games with such titillating titles as  _ Numbers Up _ ?” There’s a continuous  _ fwap _ sound as he sorts his cards into suits. 

When the cookies were ready, you piled a good bunch of them on a platter and took them to the table where you all ate. You went around knocking on the doors of people you didn’t suspect were too busy, since they wouldn’t stay warm for long. Nauls even went and told MacCready in his shack, somewhat inspired by your want to go the extra mile by telling everyone. 

You sat at the end of the table with an art book while everyone milled in. A lot of the people with more involved jobs, like Norris and Blair, just stopped by to grab a few, but still expressed their gratitude. Some laid it on a little thick, but you appreciated the flattery. Nauls went and did the cleanup, saying that he was the only one who knew where everything went and how to disassemble the appliances. Really, he just didn’t want to see everyone go googoo over you when they came to get their cookies. Some people stuck around and had a snack break. 

Palmer walked in, accompanied by Childs, with hastily washed hands and grease stains on his sleeves. Mac had cozied up in the chair next to you, under the pretense of looking through your book together. You were practically shoulder to shoulder. Windows was at the table a few seats away, with his own reading material, but keeping his eye on Mac. Fuchs sat nearby with a cup of coffee, looking over some notes as he ate. 

“Hey, ya made snickerdoodles? These are my favorite, y’know,” Palmer quipped as he sat across from you and took a cookie, eyes sparkling. The satisfaction on his face as he took a bite was palpable. From the way you practically had your tail wagging while watching him enjoy them, it was obvious you’d made them with him in mind. The mood of the room was taking a dramatic turn, and this was apparent to seemingly everyone but you. 

Palmer was especially aware of it as everyone’s gaze gravitated to the two of you. He made a big show of reaching over the table to grab your hand. 

“These are fuckin’ great. You’re a real sweetheart.”

It was, unsurprisingly, Windows who was the first to butt in. 

“Hey, that ain’t fair! How come you only made Palmer’s favorite?” He whined, part in jest, but also somewhat genuinely. And Palmer knew just what to say in response. 

“That’s easy— it’s cause  **I’m** her favorite.” You spoke up before the conversation escalated further. 

“Come on now, I did it because Palmer was the only one whose preference I knew—“

“ _ Is _ Palmer your favorite?” The look on Childs’ face as he asked told you he was doing it for the same reason Palmer was. To cause problems on purpose. 

“You don’t actually think I’d answer that, do you?” MacCready leaned into his hand, propped up on his elbow. 

“Well, you’re not denying it either, are you,  _ sweetheart _ ?” Mac pointed out. 

“So if I told you what kind of sweets I like, would you maybe keep me in mind? If it’s not any trouble,” Fuchs blurted out, feeling uncharacteristically bold. You were happy for the change in topic. 

“I can certainly try!”

“White chocolate macadamia, if it’s possible? I don’t know what we have in the reserves—“ 

“Can you make sugar cookies? I can help if you want!” Windows interjects. You decide to shut up until they do too. 

“Chocolate cake, if it’s alright with you,” Childs says. You look towards MacCready, who had yet to say anything. 

“Ah, hell. I’ll enjoy anything that comes from you, darlin’.” There were eyerolls. He was trying to be smooth, wasn’t he?

The truth was, he couldn’t remember any sweets he liked when put on the spot like that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know. I view Nauls as like. Baby son. So he will not be getting and non platonic love from me.  
> Also, in the movie, when windows gets burned, you can see all the stupid board games they have, and one of them is numbers up. I’m obsessed. It sounds like it’s a game where you literally count.


	13. Movie Night [Palmer and Windows]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movie night, wedged between two dudes who fucking hate each other, but are so so hot for you

It was quite the Shakespearean situation. Star-crossed, almost. Windows loved movies. Palmer had one of the only TVs in the outpost, and a bunch of VHS tapes. But they fucking hated each other. You, however, didn’t know that.

So of course, when Windows was talking about his favorite horror movie, and you happened to find a copy of it in Palmer’s room (clearly unlicensed as fuck, but you weren’t a  _ cop _ ), you thought, ‘ _ this is perfect, we could all watch it together!’ _ . You were, of course, right in that they would never say no to you.

Which is how you ended up squeezed between them on a makeshift couch, made from Palmer's moved bed and a metric fuck ton of pillows and blankets, mostly supplied by you. Things were starting to amp up in the movie, and you’d admit you were scared, but being between Palmer and Windows helped you stay brave. You were totally engrossed in the film, while the two of them were anything but. Too stimulated by the way you gasped, jumped, and fisted the blanket covering your lap from time to time. Too distracted occasional harsh glances towards each other, especially when one of them tried to touch you under the watch of the other. 

Windows would point out different actors and tell you where you knew them from. Palmer would explain different forms of special and practical effects, and different tricks of production. 

At one point, during a particularly nasty jumpscare, you yelped and curled reflexively into Palmer’s side for a few moments, hiding your face in his ratty denim vest. He held you for a time, a satisfied smile on his face, not faltering under Windows’ glare. 

At another point, when the tension was high, your hand had brushed against Windows’. In an instant, your hand was gripping his tightly, and your other hand squeezed at his upper arm. He blushed a little before breaking out in a confident grin, while Palmer rolled his eyes before locking them with the screen, pretending he didn’t notice. 

During the climax of the movie, they’d both come up with the same idea. They inched their hands under your blanket, resting on your leg before moving up your thigh. You were of course wearing pajama pants, there was no way you wouldn’t in fucking Antarctica. But they could feel the flesh of your thighs, warm beneath the fabric. Your eyes widened just a touch before your body relaxed. You were too distracted by the movie to think too hard about it, and it felt nice. As they inched their hands up your thighs, they came to a certain point. 

They touched fingertips. Each froze for a moment before quickly recoiling, conspicuously as hell. Disappointing— your cheeks had just started heating up, and you’d been melting at the soft petting. But you wouldn’t bring it up. If things escalated now, you might miss the ending. 


	14. Relief [Fuchs]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You help Fuchs relax  
> [nsfw]

Fuchs didn’t really know how he ended up in this situation. Him, perched in his desk chair, you on your knees in front of him. Well, logically, he  _ did _ know how he ended up in this situation.

He’d been short with you, something he really hated being. He was the kind of person who let frustration build for too long, until he had no choice but to express it. He’d told you all about the sudden increase in workload, the slight condescension from Blair, how it seemed like he barely had any time for himself. You offered to help. So yeah, he knew how he ended up here, he just couldn’t believe it. 

You’d always been nice to him, but you were nice to everyone, and maybe that was just symptomatic of your talent in bedside manner. He liked talking to you. Sure, you weren’t an expert in all of his interests or anything, but you were interested in what he had to say. He liked that. While he enjoyed his position as an assistant researcher, and he definitely didn’t think himself experienced enough to head any department, it was tiring to work as someone’s shadow, essentially. You made him feel like an intelligent, interesting man. He’d seldom felt that before meeting you. 

And you had the sort of gravitas and charisma that made you enrapturing to listen to. You had opinions that really made him think, and you were confident in sharing them. That was maybe what he liked best about talking with you. 

When you talked about helping him relieve frustration and stress, his mind drifted to less than innocent methods. But he had figured that was wishful thinking on his part, that he was jumping to conclusions, just because you liked talking to him and you happened to be of the fairer sex didn’t mean you were  _ interested _ in him. At least, not in that way. 

But when you walked the few steps from your seat on his bed and sank to the floor in front of him, resting your arms and head in his lap, looking up at him for any signs of rejection, he had never been happier to be wrong. 

Fuchs went rigid when you rubbed your cheek against the bulge forming under the layers of clothing. Even if he seemed apprehensive, it was becoming pretty clear what he wanted. You popped the button and pulled down the zipper, pulling down his thermals and underwear, and released his cock. You went in almost immediately, not wanting to torture him with the cold air of the room. You started with kitten licks, and he could feel puffs of your hot breath against him. His dick was ruddy and hot against your tongue, and you pressed wet kisses to his shaft before putting your mouth around the head. 

Fuchs had no idea what the fuck to do with his hands. He didn’t have this kind of thing happen to him a lot. He settled with one on his thigh, and the other on the back of your head, tangled in your hair. He wasn’t pushing, just gently massaging at your scalp. The way your tongue swirled against the head of his cock had him struggling not to jerk his hips and potentially gag you. Though he was finding that as time went on, the idea of you choking on him a little was becoming more appealing. You took more of him into your mouth, finding a rhythm in the way you moved, face hot from how you could feel Fuchs’ cock twitch and pulse against your tongue. 

For a few glorious moments, you took him down to the base, and he could feel the flutter of your throat muscles before you pulled off completely. You huffed air into your lungs, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his cock. You jerked him off while you recovered, then took him again. You didn’t go quite as deep again, but he could feel the tip of his cock kiss at the start of your throat every so often. Being as touch starved as he was, it wasn’t long at all before he was about to cum. 

“I-I’m going to—“ he stuttered, stopping sharply as an uncontrollable groan of pleasure ripped through his throat, one which he tried to quiet somewhat. You felt his cum shoot across your tongue and against the back of your throat, and his hips jerked as you swallowed against him. To his mortification, he realized moments after he’d come down from his high that he’d been holding your hair tightly, keeping you in place while he came. He released you immediately, muttering an embarrassed apology. Your cheeks were flushed, and you breathed heavily as you rested your cheek on his thigh. 

Fuchs pulled a tissue from his desk to clean himself up and tuck himself away, before pulling you up to sit in his lap. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable fit, this wasn’t exactly a luxurious office chair, but he didn’t want to just stay like that. He didn’t think you deserved to be on the floor after the monumental act of generosity you just displayed towards him. You hooked your arms around his neck and leaned into his chest. 

“Feel better?” you murmured, sweet as anything. His face warmed yet again. 

“Yeah. Like you don’t even know.”

Fuchs was a discreet, modest sort of guy most of the time. But for once, he had the strongest urge to brag to someone. 


	15. Winner Winner [Palmer]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Palmer get intimate

This is not the first time you and Palmer have been close. When you’d watch movies or listen to music, or even just talk in his room, you’d be draped on top of each other casually. Not to mention, Palmer is very touch-oriented. He speaks with his hands, likes to keep them busy, and you don’t mind his appreciative touches. 

This is not the first time there’s been tension between you and Palmer. There have probably been at least a dozen times in the past two weeks where he’d been dangerously close to just leaning over and kissing you. Of course, with only 12 other people around for company, the fear of fucking up a relationship and making it awkward becomes much greater. 

But this is the first time you’ve been close, felt that tension, and mutually decided it was too much to bear. This is how you found yourself pawing at his ratty denim vest, pulled into his lap on his unmade bed, liplocked with him while his fingers dug into your flesh. His lips are rough, and he lacks finesse, but that’s what makes it so intoxicating. 

When you finally pull away from each other, the both of you are breathless, and Palmer has a look of intensity on his face that you can’t tear your eyes away from. He stretches over, leaning off the bed to switch on a space heater (one he almost certainly didn’t have permission to have in his room). It’s almost shocking, the amount of confidence and authority with which he grabs the hem of your shirt and sweater, tugging them upwards. Instinctively, you lift your arms up to make it easier for him. It musses up your hair quite a bit, but he thinks it’s a good look for you. 

“Good  _ girl _ ,” he mutters, his tone appreciative as he tosses your upper layers somewhere out of sight, before placing his calloused palms over your breasts. This seems almost involuntary, as he quickly flicks his eyes up to yours to gauge your reaction. He smirks as your eyelids flutter and your face flushes further. “No bra, huh? Hey, thanks for thinkin’ of me, doll.” You let out a giggle at that. 

Palmer thumbs at your hardening nipples for a while, adoring how your tits fit in his hands, something he wouldn’t deny he’d fantasized about. His hands slip down your sides, leaving skin burning with warmth in their wake. They trail along the hem of your pants before meeting in the middle to undo them. Again, you find yourself compulsively assisting him, lifting your ass and wiggling your hips as he works them down your legs. He admires your nearly nude form for a few precious moments before his hand comes to the back of his neck, and he smiles in a way that has you wondering how this is the same guy who was constantly getting reprimanded by everyone. He could get away with murder. 

“Guess this ain’t exactly fair,” he sighs, in reference to your current state of undress. He shrugs off his vest before shedding the rest of his top layers. He isn’t an Adonis by any means. He’s on the skinny side, average sort of build, a couple burn scars and miscellaneous bruises littering his abdomen from god knows what. But you love the way his body fits around yours when the two of you get close. He’s perfect for you. He quickly sheds his pants, leaving him in just his boxers, as naked as you. 

He brings his lips back to yours in open mouthed kisses, continuing to paw at your breasts, a fixation he wasn’t even a little ashamed of. 

“It’s a damn crime. Wearing all those sweaters when you’ve got perfect tits like these,” he breathes against your jaw as he moves to suck at your neck. 

“Maybe that’s why I do it. Nothing would get done around here,” you coo, conscious of how you huff and whimper at his rough touch and the teeth against your throat. He scoffs and hums against your skin. 

“You’re right. I’d be wringing their fuckin’ necks for starin’,” he trails off with something of a growl. You like this possessive side of him. You know he doesn’t actually give that much of a shit, but in the heat of the moment, it feels nice that he cares. With a speed you didn’t think he was capable of, he pulls at your hips and sends you onto your back, and his hand moves south to your clothed lips as he leans over you. His smirk returns in a major way when he feels the slickness of the fabric. He grabs them at the sides and you quickly fold your legs up to get them off. You’re  _ glistening _ for him, all hot and flushed in the most tempting of ways. You peak down to see a dark spot on his boxers, his cock straining the fabric. 

He has pretty much no doubt this is the hardest he’s ever been in his entire life. The wait is bitter, but the fruit is sweet, maybe? No, not quite. This wouldn’t have happened for any other girl but you, didn’t matter if they were the only girl for a few thousand miles. You watched his stupid game shows, showed him your mixtapes, kissed his silly little cuts and burns. All those nights sleepless, all those times nestled up to you while you went and nestled your way into his ribcage and around his heart. 

Palmer doesn’t really like to give oral. Doesn’t hate it, but he just doesn’t really get much out of it. But he decides, since this is something of a special occasion and you are something of a special girl, he’ll generously give you a lickout. And despite how carefree and low effort he seems most times, he doesn’t just let your thighs rest on his shoulder. No, he pins them back against you, his hands holding them under the knee while you’re presented to him. It’s pretty fucking embarassing. He has something of a thousand yard stare, and if you’d had any confidence that you could out maneuver him and cover yourself you might have tried it. 

His mouth descends onto your mound, his pierced tongue tracing and prodding the lips of your cunt before he flicks the appendage against your clit, already swelling from the attention. He licks out your slit like you were dessert and he’d be damned if he wasted any. He notices how your gasps break and your back arches with the occasional hard suck to your clit, sending a hard jolt to his cock. Maybe he  _ is _ getting something out of this. He’d have to investigate further another time. 

Palmer revells in the wet sounds his mouth made against you, his lips now glossy with your slick. The way it sounds every he took his mouth from your cunt is so fuckin’  _ filthy _ he wants to record it. Maybe he’d sneak something from the radio room and fulfill that fantasy another day. And shit, if he had a tape of the sounds you were makin’ cause of him? He’d wear it down, listen til the ribbon fucking snapped. And then he’d just have to pin you down and get to work on another one, wouldn’t he? 

Just as you felt that coil in your stomach couldn’t get tighter, that you were about to cum, he pulls away. You whine in a way he finds absolutely darling. He laughs lowly and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Cute.  _ Real _ cute. I’d edge ya more if I wasn’t about to lose my damn mind,” he trails, taking his hands off of you momentarily to shove his boxers off, before he’s back to looming over you with his hand squeezing your thighs. He puts a hand around his cock, teasing the head into your folds and gathering slick, which he uses to stroke over himself. The rise and fall of your chest is momentarily hypnotic to him. 

“Y’want it, doll? Go ahead ‘n ask for it.” He prods your opening just so with his tip, enough to feel the way your muscles flutter in an attempt to pull him in. 

“Palmer, please—please fuck me,” you moan. The smirk on his face falters as a more serious desperation washes over. He leans down and presses a few open mouthed kisses to you, still tasting of your honey. He moves down to suck on your neck bruisingly. 

“Since you asked so nicely,” he breathes against your skin, pushing his cock against you until you give out a sharp gasp when the tip pops in. Your walls are already doing a hell of a job milking him, and he’s not gonna refuse your body what it so clearly wants. His head stays in the crook of your neck as he inches his way into you, nipping and sucking at your skin to distract you from the slight discomfort and pressure you feel from the stretch of him. It doesn’t hurt, because he wouldn’t forgive himself for hurting you, but it takes a few moments of harsh breathing and whimpering to get used to. 

When he bottoms out, he groans harshly and stills his hips, waiting for a go-ahead from you. You clench against him when you’re ready, and he chuckles before lifting himself from your neck, admiring your parted mouth and ruddy cheeks, and the way your hair is splayed out on the bed. His hands are back on your thighs, brows furrowed a little as he pushed them against you, determined, for whatever reason, to put you in a press. You’re not complaining. 

He starts with shallow, slow thrusts, pulling little yearning noises from you that he’s a big fan of. He picks up the pace, increasing the length and speed of his thrusts until you can hear his balls slap against your ass. Another sound that has Palmer obsessed. He looks at you with a terrible intensity the whole time, only breaking to clench his eyes shut when your walls flutter against him in a particularly nice way, forcing groans from him. 

“So good… so good for me,” Palmer growls out, and your gaze is caught in his yet again. “Tight little thing, aren’t ya? Hell, I’m not complaining.” He can still find it in himself, between your pleasured mewls and the sensation of your hot velvet, to smirk. The two of your are so packed together you can just barely feel the clench of his abdominal muscles as he pistons into you. One hand lets go of you to shove it’s way between you, where his calloused thumb finds your clit and starts rubbing the fuck out of it. Your moans intensify to cries. 

“Ain’t gonna stop ‘til I feel you cum on my cock, babe.” You don’t put it past him to be able to hold in an orgasm with pure stubbornness. 

“Palm… I’m really close, please,” he doesn’t know whether you’re asking him to let up or go harder, but he loves how you say his name, and he sure as hell isn’t letting up now. His thrusts are hitting a special place inside you, and he can tell from your face and voice that you’re on the precipice. 

“C’mon babe, fuckin’ _milk_ _me_ , I want it!” Palmer grits out, getting dangerously close himself. You endeavor to keep your eyes open as they flutter in pleasure, so you can see how adoringly Palmer looks at you while you cum. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw something so beautiful. Your orgasm shakes you down to the fucking core, taking hold of your entire body for some eternal, precious moments, and he can feel all of it. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,  _ god— _ Fuck!” Palmer lets out a string of curses and grunts, unable to withstand the way your cunt hugs him in the aftermath of your climax, stroking against his cock in a way he won’t stop thinking about for weeks. In a move you're both surprised he has the wherewithal to think of, he quickly pulls out and cums, painting your stomach and inner thighs. He collapses over you, not caring about his spunk sticking between the two of you for the moment, his face finding a place back in the crook of your neck, where you can feel his hot breath. 

After a little while, he finally peels himself away, more concerned for your comfort than his. He finds his discarded shirt, using it to wipe the two of you down before tossing it in some corner of the room. He collapses next to you right after. After a few minutes without contact, you turn to your side, nervous and wondering if he’s regretting it, and you’ve done something you can’t go back on. Surprisingly intuitive to you, he sighs deep and pulls his hand down his face before wrapping an arm around your middle. 

“Alright, c’mere, doll,” he yawns as he pulls you into his side, arm around you as your head is laid against his chest. He leans off the bed for a second to grab one of the crumpled blankets the two of you kicked onto the floor at some point, setting it over the two of you with an amount of care you didn’t expect. 

“Comfy?” He asks. 

“Mhm,” you mumble, feeling warm and sleepy. Palmer is trying hard to capture this image of you in his mind as he sighs. You’re so soft. 

“Good,” he murmurs, beginning to drift off. And for the record, he’s completely forgotten about the whiskey and the money. He’s thinking about what it’ll be like when the two of you wake up. He’s happy. 

He’s hoping you’ll steal one of his old shirts to wear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like!!! I’m pretty proud of this one. It was really fun to write. If it seems like I’m biased towards Palmer it’s because I am. It’s called coping.


	16. Heavy [Mac]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Mac. In the shack.

MacCready is feeling like all of his Christmases have come at once. He’s not one to have illusions of grandeur, but a part of him feels clever-- strategic, like an apex predator. His approach to you has been a careful one, he could tell that you were cautious of him. But after weeks of inching closer, prodding deeper into your little world, observing your ticks and quirks, you seem to have opened up. 

And now you’re finally here, where he’s been trying to court you for so long. Not just in his shack, but pulled into his laps, in his arms. The rabbit in his snare— and he wanted to eat you up. But he liked playing with his food. 

It had helped that the place wasn’t exactly roomy, and you’d wanted to warm up so badly (as this was your first winter with them in the Outpost, and you weren’t as numb to the cold as he was). And it’s not like you were shy to begin with. 

It’s funny— he’s supposed to be the one warming you up, but he’s absolutely reveling in how warm and soft your body is against his. He had to suppress a groan when you first nestled against him. He’s one touch starved sonuvabitch. He feels the heat of your breath against his collar, and he finds himself having to focus extra hard to hear what you’re saying through this fog that seems to consume him whenever the two of you come in contact. 

“You're not uncomfortable, are you, Mac?” You murmur sweetly, the warmth of his embrace making you feel more comfortable and sleepy with each passing minute. His hearts thrums whenever you concern yourself with him. He’s used to a bunch of emotionally out-of-touch guys who usually act like they don’t give a damn whether he lives or dies. He knows that it isn’t  _ really _ like that— that at least a handful of the others seriously care about him, but it feels so damned  _ good _ to hear it out loud. Especially in your honeyed voice. 

“Nah, you kidding? Most comfortable I’ve been in a long time,” he rolls out nonchalantly, stroking one hand along your hip while the other has a thumb rubbing circles into your calf. In a moment of lapsed control and an overt lack of shame, he buries his nose in your hair and inhales deeply, letting out a somewhat shaky sigh. You smell as sweet as you act. He wonders if your skin tastes as sweet, too. You hum and lean unconsciously into his touch, and he feels blessed to still be coherent enough to withhold a groan of satisfaction at how receptive you’re being to him. The hand on your hip slides further up, just barely coasting along the curve at the side of your breast. 

Suddenly, he’s overwhelmed with a sense of sadness, and a yearning for affection. He can drink as much whiskey, start as many fires, and put on as many layers as he wants. There’s a warmth he craves that can’t be satisfied by such conventional methods. 

His arms wrap around your middle, and your bodies conform to each other. The kiss MacCready plants on your head is neither subtle… nor obvious. At least, that’s what he hopes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not dead. I’m just dumb. I’ve taken a mistress and her name is video game addiction.


	17. Discipline [Garry]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this could be seen as abuse of power! So if you hate that idea, skip over this chapter
> 
> IDK if I'm pleased with this one, it's short, but I wanted to do something for Garry. I've got a lot of ideas coming up, but let me know if you wanna see more of dom Garry.

Garry has favorites. Everyone knows, and nobody much cares. He likes people who follow the few rules there are, do their work promptly, and don’t curse him out when he has to do the occasional nagging. You’re one of his favorites, but it’s hard for anyone to tell. And that’s because— as much as he’d be ashamed to admit it— it’s just so  _ fun _ to scold you. Maybe ‘fun’ isn’t the right word. Satisfying?  _ Stimulating _ ?

Most things he has to talk to you about aren’t mistakes resultant from laziness or carelessness. There’s the usual margin of human error, as well as purely clerical errors that are just a symptom of you being new to the job. Little bits of paperwork you aren’t sure how to fill, forgetting to date forms, that sort of thing. 

Today, as you sat in the chair in front of the desk in Garry’s office, was one of those days. Unlike most people who were called in here on discipline, you had a rigid posture and you kept your hands folded in your lap, but clearly not relaxed as you stroked over your own knuckles. You were on edge, and Garry could so easily imagine your fidgeting in a different setting— one where you were blindfolded and bound and he was trailing his riding crop up your torso. 

“As medical personnel, the rest of us depend on you,” he lectured, as if he was even close to being genuinely upset with you. “Please. Be a little more careful.”

He leaned forward just slightly on his desk, hands clasped together. Garry had this bizarre way of pouting and drawing his eyebrows in just so, in a way that conveyed pleading but didn’t betray his aura of authority. He could see the rise and fall of your chest as you let out a deep exhale, a little shaky. You continued to sit up straight, as if determined to not appear as a shrinking violet in front of your boss. It wouldn’t do well to appear  _ so _ sensitive to light criticism. 

Garry enjoyed your sensitivity, but what he enjoyed even more was cracking you open to get to it. So he didn’t mind the facade. You cleared your throat slightly before speaking.

“I’ll be more careful,” you said, ducking your head a little but keeping eye contact. He wished he could come up with another reason to keep you, but he couldn’t think of anything within reason, so he turned back to his work, which you took as your cue to leave.

Garry had no idea that you knew about his proclivity. You liked to make him squirm in your own way. They say the submissive is the one who really has all of the control, right? You got up and righted your clothes in a way that probably looked kind of obvious to anyone who wasn’t thinking with their dick-- pulling your layers taut against your figure for a few moments before letting them fall naturally. Hesitating at the door for a moment before briskly walking through, but making sure the door clicked closed gently. You could hear the deep sigh on the other side of the door.


	18. The Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bet is resolved. Sort of.

Nauls took no pleasure in being a bookie. There were a lot of things he’d rather do. But he did take pleasure in having inside knowledge on a bet he wasn’t a part of. Yesterday you told him about what you’d gotten up to with Palmer (you mercifully spared him of the details), and it was starting to get a little dull in the rec room tonight. Prime time to start problems on purpose. You were in your room as usual, having some treasured alone time after being pestered for different forms of quality time all day.

“Anyone wanna collect on that bet yet?” he spoke casually, as if he wasn’t really thinking while talking as he thumbed through a book he didn’t even know the title of. The energy of the room went through a paradigm shift. Blair very blatantly threw down his cards and left— a wise decision. Clark stayed put, surprisingly, following through with a shot in the eight ball game he had going with Mac. He missed— badly, which was also uncharacteristic of him. Palmer’s head shot up in an incredibly delayed reaction, using a shoulder to shrug one of his headphones to the side.

“Guess I’ll be takin’ that,” he grinned, unsubtle as usual, and Windows looked about ready to burst into flames. He ripped off his sunglasses and looked up from his guitar when Palmer was halfway across the room.

“Bull. Shit.” he gritted out.

“Got somethin’ to say, Windows?” Palmer barked back, a little louder than he’d anticipated.

“We’re just supposed to believe you? I ain’t buyin’ it, Palmer. Prove it.” Childs looked up from the chessboard upon which he was  _ destroying _ Fuchs. 

“I can vouch for him—“ he sighs, “walls are thin in this place.”

“There, that good enough for ya?”

“Fuck, no, he’s probably in on it with you!”

“Hold on a second,” Clark interjected. Mac pretended to line up his shot on the table, but he was smiling the way only a bitch who knows something  _ you don’t _ can smile. “What were the terms here?” Windows answered.

“Whoever nailed her first—”

“That’s not exactly accurate,” interrupted Fuchs, “No one ever explicitly stated it had to be sex in the traditional sense. It was just whoever ‘ _ got to _ ’ her first. Palmer, when did you start getting intimate with her?”

“Few days ago, what’s it matter?”

“Then I’ve got you beat by about a week.” Even Childs was a little taken aback by the statement. Windows grew more confused and incensed by the minute.

“So what? You’re not even a part of the bet--”

“You’re right, because I thought it was pretty gross— and I still do. But the fact remains that you never specified that it had to be the first of your little group. Whoever it was had to be the first  _ period _ . So none of you win, technically.”

“You gotta question me, why don’t you question Fuchs, huh? Why couldn’t he be lyin’?” Palmer demanded. Mac stood up straight after taking his shot, the clack of the pool balls echoing in the room, almost deafened completely by the arguing.

“Clark,” who, by the way, was giving MacCready a look that said  _ What the hell do you think you’re doing _ ? “Would now be a bad time to bring up…?”

“No way,” Windows mumbled in disbelief, “not you too, Clark. C’mon.”

Clark’s face was not one that conveyed apology. Only inescapable truths. Nauls tossed the cassette case with the money on the pool table for everyone to take their share back. Bennings took over during Windows’ stunned silence.

“Clark, Fuchs, could you at least tell us which one of you was first?”

“It was Clark,” Nauls answered, not missing a beat. He clicked his tongue at the stares he got in return.

“You guys think all we do is roller skate and bake cookies?  _ Tsk Tsk _ .”


	19. Proving [windows][incomplete?]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I've run outta juice for the thing. Instead of leaving this story in limbo forever, I decided to muster what I got done for this chapter and post it here, and declare the story finished, for now. I know this isn't really satisfying or complete, but it's what I can do! Thanks for all of your support. And who knows, maybe I'll come back to it one day?
> 
> For now, here's what I got.

Nauls told you all about what went down in the rec room a few nights ago. And by god, it almost made you wish you’d been there. But no, you’d been transfixed in the euphoria of designing new and ridiculous ideas for Barbie dolls. Palmer liked the one made to look like Ellen Ripley. 

Most people were able to act the same as always, and if they weren’t, they at least had the decency to pretend nothing had changed. Windows, however, had been little but vacant stares and twitches of the mouth. If you’d really wanted to piss him off, you would’ve told him that he was starting to look a little like Palmer. But you had no interest in provoking an easy target right now. Uncharacteristically buried in his work, he’d been unable to entertain you in the radio room for a few days. 

Until one day, for the first time ever, he actually came knocking at your door. His eyes were lively and engaged, with his usual sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt by the hinge. He smiled when you answered, just a twinge uneasy. 

“C-can I come in? If you’re not busy,” he blurted, the hands in his pockets stretching his vest taut with anxiety. You welcomed him in and he felt a twinge in his gut from how happy you were to see him. You motioned to the desk chair, which he took, looking all around in curiosity at the little things around your room. A couple movie poster reproductions, clothes on the unmade bed, a children’s calendar on your desk. There was a lot of character. You plopped down on your bed, like it was the most natural thing ever, and faced him with bright eyes. 

“What’s up? You’ve been busy lately. Not that anyone’s complaining,” you mused casually, and Windows had no idea how it was that his palms could sweat in fucking Antarctica. 

“Did you really? With— with  _ Palmer _ ?” He felt the words fall out of his mouth as soon as he opened it. His tone was more incredulous than accusatory, but he could still see some shock on your face that he’d asked. Your eyes shifted cautiously before responding. 

“Do  _ what _ ?” He had no idea how to respond. 

“Y’know— did you fuck?” Correction. He had no idea how to respond  _ tactfully _ . Your expression relaxed a little, and it made the radio tech wonder just what else you thought he could’ve been referring to. A question for another time, if he lived through this. 

“Yeah,” you admitted, lips pursed. 

“Was it  _ good _ ?” He pressed. 

“Well. I certainly enjoyed myself. He did too, if I’m not mistaken. Why?”

“I think I could do better.” You were struck dumb at the statement. But you couldn’t deny Windows had his own gravitas, and while you’d never be happy about him and Palmer’s mutual hatred for each other… it kind of made you feel some type of way, to see Windows get so heated about this. You took a deep breath to compose yourself before you spoke again. 

“Wh-what do you mean by that, exactly?” You still trembled under his wild gaze (a look which likened him to Palmer more than he would’ve liked). You blinked, and he shifted the few feet or so from your desk to sit next to you on the bed. 

“I  _ mean _ ,” he says with a certain amount of venom you know isn’t meant for you, “that Palmer’s an idiot.” Overcoming some trepidation, Windows set a hand on your thigh. You still looked blindsided.  _ Fuck it _ , he thought, and when he kissed you, it came as naturally as breathing. 

When he gets his lips on yours, he’s kissing you with fervor, like he’ll never see you again. His tongue licks into your mouth, hands gently pushing against your shoulders until you’re on your back. He pulls away, looking down at you intensely as he searches for more words. 

“Let me take care of you,” he all but orders. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and a smile breaks out on your face. 

“You really hate him, don’t you?”

“Well, almost as much as I like you.”


End file.
